Текст книги "Stars and Stripes Triumphant"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

Соавторы: Harry Harrison,Harry Harrison
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION!

At was a moment frozen in time. The fallen Belgian officer was on his hands and knees; the other soldiers still stood at attention, still obeying their last command. Lincoln, shocked by the sudden appearance of the gunman from the crowd, stopped before taking a half step back.

The pistol in the stranger’s hand came up – and fired.

The unexpected is the expected in war. While both of these general officers accompanying the President had had more than their fill of war, they were still seasoned veterans of many conflicts and had survived them all. Without conscious thought they reacted; they did not hesitate.

General Grant, who was closest to the President, hurled himself between his commander in chief and the assassin’s gun. Fell back as the bullet struck home.

There was no second shot.

At first sight of the pistol, General Sherman had seized his scabbard in his left hand and, with his right hand, had pulled the sword free. In one continuous motion the point of the sword came up, and as he took a long step forward, Sherman, without hesitation, thrust the gleaming weapon into the attacker’s heart. He drew it out as the man dropped to the floor. Sherman stood over him, sword poised and ready, but there was no movement. He kicked the revolver from the man’s limp fingers, sending it skidding across the marble floor.

Someone screamed, shrilly, over and over again. The frozen moment was over. The officer in charge of the honor guard shouted commands and the uniformed men drew up in a circle around the President’s party, facing outward, swords at the ready. Lincoln, shaken by the sudden ferocity of the unexpected attack, looked down at the wounded general stretched out on the marble floor. He shook himself, as though struggling to understand what had happened, then took off his coat, folded it, bent over, and placed it under Grant’s head. Grant scowled down at the blood seeping from his wounded right arm, started to sit up, then winced with the effort. He cradled his wounded arm in his left hand to ease the pain.

“The ball appears to still be in there,” he said. “It looks like the bone stopped it from going on through.”

“Will someone get a doctor?” Lincoln shouted above the din of raised voices.

Sherman stood above the body of the man he had just killed, looked out at the milling crowd, which was pulling back from the ring of cuirassed officers who faced them with drawn swords ready. Satisfied now that the assassin had been alone, he wiped the blood from his sword on the tail of the dead man’s coat. After slipping the sword back into its scabbard, he bent and rolled the body onto its back. The white-skinned face, the long dark hair seemed very familiar. He continued to stare at it even as one of the officers handed him the still-cocked assassin’s revolver. He carefully let the hammer down and put it into his pocket.

The circle of protecting soldiers drew apart to admit a rotund little man carrying a doctor’s bag. He opened the bag and took out a large pair of shears, then proceeded to cut away the sleeve of Grant’s jacket, then the blood-sodden fabric of his shirt. With a metal pick he bent to probe delicately at the wound. Grant’s face turned white and the muscles stood out on the sides of his jaw, but he said nothing. The doctor carefully bandaged the wound to stop the bleeding, then called out in French for assistance, a table, something to carry the wounded man. Lincoln stepped aside as uniformed servants pushed forward to aid the doctor.

“I know this man,” Sherman said, pointing down at the body of the assassin. “I watched him for three hours, from the front row of the balcony in Ford’s Theater. He is an actor. The one who played in Our American Cousin. His name is John Wilkes Booth.”

“We were going to see that play,” Lincoln said, suddenly very tired. “But that was before Mary was taken ill. Did you hear the words that he called out before he fired? I could not understand them.”

“That was Latin, Mr. President. What he shouted out was ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ It is the motto of the state of Virginia. It means something like ‘thus always to tyrants.’ ”

“A Southern sympathizer! To have come all this way from America, to have crossed the ocean just to attempt to kill me. It is beyond reason that a person could be filled with such hatred.”

“Feelings in the South still run deep, as you know, Mr. President. Sad as it is to say, there are many who will never forgive you for stopping their secession.” Sherman looked up and saw that a door had been produced and that Grant, his bandaged arm secured across his chest, was being lifted carefully onto it. Sherman stepped forward to take charge and ordered that the wounded Grant be taken to their suite of rooms on the floor above. He knew that a military surgeon accompanied their official party – and Sherman had more faith in him than he had in any foreign sawbones who might appear here.

It was silent in the bedroom once the servants left. The closed doors shut out the clamorous crowd. From the bed where he had been carefully placed, Grant waved to Sherman with his good arm.

“That was a mighty fine thrust. But then, you were always good at fencing at the Point. Do you always keep your dress sword so well sharpened?”

“A weapon is always a weapon.”

“True enough – and I shall remember your advice. But, Cumph, let me tell you, I have not been drinking of late, as you know. However, I never travel unprepared, so if you don’t mind I am going to make an exception just this one time. I hope you will agree that these are unusual circumstances.”

“I can’t think of anything more unusual.”

“Good. Why then you’ll find a stone crock of the best corn in that wardrobe thing in my room…”

“Good as done.”

As Sherman stood up there was a quick knock on the door. He let the doctor in – a gray-haired major with years of field experience – before heading off to find the crock. While he was away, the surgeon, with a skill born of battlefield practice, found the bullet and extracted it. Along with a patch of coat and shirt material that had been carried into the wound by the ball. He was just finishing up rebandaging the wound when Sherman returned with the stone jug and two glasses.

“Bone’s bruised, but not broken,” the surgeon said. “The wound is clean; I’m binding it up in its own blood. There should be no complications.” As soon as the doctor let himself out, Sherman poured two full glasses from the crock.

Grant sighed deeply as he emptied his glass; color quickly returned to his gray cheeks.

The President and Ambassador Pierce came in just as he was finishing a second tumbler; Pierce was flustered and sweating profusely. Lincoln was his usual calm self.

“I hope that you feel as well as you look, General Grant. I greatly feared for you,” he said.

“I’m not making light of it, Mr. President, but I’ve been shot a lot worse before. And the doctor here says it will heal fast. I’m sorry to ruin the party.”

“You saved my life,” Lincoln said, his voice filled with deep emotion, “for which I will be ever grateful.”

“Any soldier would have done the same, sir. It is our duty.”

Suddenly very weary, Lincoln sat down heavily on the bench by the bed. “Did you get off that message?” he asked, turning to Pierce.

“I did, sir. On your official stationery. Explaining to King Leopold just what happened. A messenger took it. But I wondered, Mr. President: Would you like to send another message explaining that you won’t be able to attend the reception tonight at the Palais du Roi?”

“Nonsense. General Grant may be indisposed, but he, and General Sherman, have seen to it that I am fit as a fiddle. This entire unhappy affair must have a satisfactory end. We must show them that Americans are made of sterner stuff. This attempt at assassination must not be allowed to deter us, to prevent us from accomplishing our mission here.”

“If we are going to the reception, may I ask a favor, sir?” Sherman said. “Since General Grant will not be able to attend, I would like to ask General Meagher to go in his place. He is not due to return to Ireland until tomorrow.”

“An excellent idea. I am sure that no assassins will lurk in the palace. But after this morning I admit I will feel that much more comfortable with you officers in blue at my side.”

Sherman remained with Grant once the others had left. The two generals shared a bit more of the corn likker. After years of heavy drinking, Grant had given it up when he resumed his military career. He was no longer used to the ardent spirit. His eyes soon closed and he was asleep. Sherman let himself out and the infantry captain stationed in the hall outside snapped to attention.

“General Grant, sir. May I ask how he is doing?”

“Well, very well indeed. A simple flesh wound and the ball removed. Has there been no official statement?”

“Of course, General. Mr. Fox read it out to us – I had one of my men bring a copy to the palace. But it was quite brief and just said that there had been an attempt on the President’s life and that General Grant was wounded in the attempt. The attacker was killed before he could fire again. That’s all it said.”

“I believe that is enough.”

The captain took a deep breath and looked around before he spoke again in a lowered voice. “The rumor is you took him with your sword, General. A single thrust through the heart…”

Sherman ought to have been angry with the man; he smiled instead. “For once a rumor is true, Captain.”

“Well done, sir, well done!”

Sherman waved away the man’s heartfelt congratulations. Turned and went to his room. Always after combat he was dry-mouthed with thirst. He drank glass after glass of water from the carafe on the side table. It had been a close-run thing. He would never forget the sight of Booth pushing forward between the soldiers, the black revolver coming up. But it was all over. The threat had been removed; the only casualty had been Grant being injured and left with a badly wounded arm. It could have been a lot worse.

That night a closed carriage was sent for the American party. And, not by chance, it was surrounded by a troop of cavalry as it made its way across the Grande Place and past the Hôtel de Ville. They drew up before the Palais du Roi. The two generals exited first, walking close beside the President as they climbed the red-carpeted steps; Pierce followed behind. Once they were inside, Pierce hurried ahead of the rest of the American party as they entered the hall, whispered urgently to the majordomo who was to announce them. There was a moment of silence when Lincoln’s name was called out; all eyes were upon him in the crowded hall. Then there was a quick flutter of clapping and then the buzz of conversation was resumed. A waiter with a tray of champagne glasses approached them as they entered the large reception room. All of the other brilliantly clad guests seemed to be holding a glass, so the Americans followed suit.

“Weak stuff,” General Meagher muttered, draining his glass and trying to see if the waiter was about with another.

Lincoln smiled and just touched the glass to his lips as he looked around. “Now, see the large man in that group of officers over there; I do believe that is someone I have met before.” He nodded in the direction of the imposing, red-faced man, dressed in an ornate pink uniform, who was pushing through the crowd toward them. Three other uniformed officers were close behind him. “I do believe that he is a Russian admiral with a name I have completely forgotten.”

“You are president, we meet once in your Washington City,” the admiral said, stopping before Lincoln as he seized his hand in his own immense paw. “I am Admiral Paul S. Makhimov, you remember. You people they sink plenty British ships, then they kill British soldiers… very good! These my staff.”

The three accompanying officers clicked their heels and bowed as one. Lincoln smiled and managed to extricate his hand from the admiral’s clasp.

“But that war is over, Admiral,” he said. “Like the Russians, the Americans are now at peace with the world.”

As the President spoke, one of the Russian officers came forward and extended his hand to Sherman, who had, perforce, to take it.

“You must be congratulated, General Sherman, on a brilliant and victorious campaign,” he said in perfect English.

“Thank you – but I’m afraid that I didn’t catch your name.”

“Captain Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski,” the officer said, releasing Sherman’s hand and bowing yet again. While his head was lowered he spoke softly so that only General Sherman could hear him. “I must meet with you in private.”

He straightened up and smiled, white teeth standing out against his black beard.

Sherman had no idea what this was about – though he dearly wanted to know. He thought quickly, then brushed his hand across his mustache, spoke quietly when his mouth was covered.

“I am in room one eighteen in the Hotel Grand Mercure. The door will be unlocked at eight tomorrow morning.” There was nothing more that could be said and the Russian officer moved away. Sherman turned back to his party and did not see the captain again.

General Sherman sipped his champagne and thought about the curious encounter. What had caused him to respond so quickly to the unusual request? Perhaps it was the officer’s command of English. But what could it all be about? Should he be armed when he unlocked the door? No, that was nonsense; after this day’s events, it appeared that he still had assassination on his brain. It was obvious that the Russian officer wanted to communicate something, had some message that could not go through normal channels without others being aware of what was happening. If that was the case, he knew just the man to ask about it.

The reception and the presentations, the bowing and saluting, went on far into the night. Only after the Americans had been introduced to King Leopold could they even think about leaving. Happily, the meeting with the King was brief.

“Mr. President Lincoln, it is my great pleasure to meet you at last.”

“It is mine as well, Your Majesty.”

“And your health – it is good?” The King’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Never better. It must be the salubrious air of your fine country. I feel as comfortable here as I would at home in my own parlor.”

The King nodded vaguely at this. Then his attention was drawn elsewhere and he turned away.

Once they had been dismissed, the President rounded up his party. It was after midnight and they were all tired. Not so, apparently, the Belgian cavalry officer commanding the troopers who accompanied their carriage back to the hotel. Spurred on by his shouted commands, they surrounded the carriage, sabers drawn and ready, warily on guard. The streets were empty, echoing the clattering hoofbeats of the mounted guards; a strangely reassuring sound.

As soon as he had left the others at the hotel, General Sherman went and pounded on Gustavus Fox’s door.

“Duty calls, Gus. You better wake up.”

The door opened immediately. Gus was in his shirtsleeves; lamps illuminated a table strewn with papers. “Sleep is only for the wicked,” he said. “Come in and tell me what brings you around at this hour.”

“An international mystery – and it appears to be right down your line of work.”

Gus listened to the description of the brief encounter in silence, nodding vigorously and enthusiastically when Sherman was done.

“You have given this officer the perfect response, General. Anything to do with the Russians is of vital interest to us right now – or at any time, for that matter. Ever since the Crimean War they have had no love for the British. They were invaded and fought very hard in their own defense. But it is not only Britain that they see as the enemy – it is almost every other country in Europe. In their own defense they have a superb spy network, and I must say that they make the most of it. I can now tell you that a few years ago they actually stole the plans for the most secret British rifled hundred-pound cannon. They actually had the American gunsmith Parrott make them a replica. Now we discover that an English-speaking officer on the Russian admiral’s staff wants to meet with you in private. Admirable!”

“What should I do about it?”

“Unlock your door at eight in the morning – then see what happens. With your permission I will join you in this dawn adventure.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way – since this is your kind of game and not mine.”

“I shall be there at seven, which is only a few hours from now. Get some sleep.”

“You as well. And when you come, why, see that you bring a large pot of coffee with you. This has been a long day – and I feel that it is going to be an even longer one tomorrow.”

The knock on the door aroused Sherman. He was awake at once; his years of campaigning in the field had prepared him for action at any hour. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door. Gus stepped aside and waved the hotel servant past him – who pushed a wheeled table laden with coffee, hot rolls, butter, and preserves.

“We shall wait in comfort,” Gus said.

“We shall indeed.” Sherman nodded and smiled when he noticed that there were three cups on the table. When the waiter had bowed himself out, they saw to it that the door remained unlocked. Then they sat by the window and sipped their coffee while Brussels slowly came to life outside.

It was just a few minutes past eight when the hall door opened and closed quickly. A tall man in a dark suit entered, locking the door behind him before he turned to face the room. He nodded at General Sherman, then turned to face Gus.

“I am Count Alexander Igoreivich Korzhenevski. And you would be…?”

“Gustavus Fox, Assistant Secretary of the Navy.”

“How wonderful – the very man I wanted to contact.” He saw Gus’s sudden frown and waved away his concern. “I assure you, I am alone in my knowledge of your existence and will never reveal that information to a soul. I have been associated with Russian naval intelligence for many years, and we have a certain friend in common. Commander Schulz.”

Gus smiled at this and took the Count’s hand. “A friend indeed.” He turned to the puzzled Sherman. “It was Commander Schulz who brought us the plans of the British breech-loading cannon that I told you about.” With a sudden thought he turned back to Korzhenevski. “You would not, by any chance, be associated with that affair?”

“Associated? My dear Mr. Fox – at the risk of appearing too forward, I must admit that I was the one who managed to purloin the plans in the first place. You must understand that in my youth I attended the Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Graduated from that admirable institution, having made many friends there down through the years, I am forced to admit that I am fairly well known throughout the British navy. So much so that old shipmates still refer to me as Count Iggy. Someone not too bright, but very rich and well known as an ever-flowing font of champagne.”

“Well, Count Iggy,” Sherman said. “I have only coffee to offer you now. Please do sit and have some. Then, perhaps, you will enlighten us as to the reason for this sub-rosa encounter.”

“I will be most delighted, General. Delighted!”

The Count took the chair farthest from the window and nodded his thanks when Fox passed him a cup of coffee. He sipped a bit before he spoke.

“My greatest indulgence these days is my little boat, the Aurora. I suppose you would call her more of a yacht than a boat. A steam launch, since I never could master all of those ropes and lines and sails and things that most sailors are so fond of. It is really quite jolly to fool about in. Makes traveling here and there and everywhere most easy as well. People admire her lines, but rarely query her presence.”

Sherman nodded. “That is most interesting, Count, but—”

“But why am I telling you this? You are wondering. I do have my reasons – first I must bore you with some of my family history. History tells us that the Korzhenevskis were glorious, but impoverished Polish nobility until my great-grandfather chose to join the navy of Peter the Great in 1709. He had served with great valor in the Swedish navy, but was more than happy to change sides when the Swedes were defeated by the Russians. He was still in the service when Peter expanded the Russian navy, and my reading of our family history reveals that his career was a most distinguished one. My great-grandfather, who was also very much a linguist, learned English and actually attended the British Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Very much the anglophile, he married into a family of the lesser nobility, who, impoverished as they were, considered him a great catch. Ever since then our family, in St. Petersburg, has been very English-orientated. I grew up speaking both languages and, like the eldest son of each generation, attended the Greenwich Naval College. So there you have it – you see before you an Englishman in all but name.”

His smile vanished and his face darkened as he leaned forward and spoke in a barely audible voice. “But that is no more. When the British attacked my country, I felt betrayed, wronged. On the surface I still amuse and entertain my English friends, because that role suits me best. But deep inside me, you must understand, is the feeling that I loathe them – and would do anything to bring about their destruction. When they attacked your country – and you defeated them – my heart sang with happiness. May I now call you my friends – because we are joined in a common cause? And please believe me when I say that I will do anything to advance that cause.”

Deep in thought, Gus rose and put his empty cup on the table, turned, and smiled warmly.

“That is a very generous offer, sir. Do you think you might consider a little ocean cruise?”

The Count’s smile mirrored his. “I might very well indeed. I was thinking of tootling up the Thames to Greenwich. I have some classmates still stationed there. Might I invite you to join me? Aurora is getting a refit in Hamburg just now. I intend to join her in a week’s time. I shall then sail her to Ostend. Please think about this, and when you make a decision, please leave a note for me at the desk sometime today, since I will be leaving at dawn tomorrow. A yes or a no will suffice. And I do hope that you will say yes. And in addition, you must excuse me, I do hate to be personal – but I must tell you that there are almost no redheads in Russia.”

He rose and put down his cup, turning once again to Gus. “If I could bother you – to look down the hall. It is important that we not be seen together.”

The hall was empty. With a cheery wave, the Count was gone and Gus locked the door behind him. Sherman poured himself some more coffee and shook his head.

“I’m a simple man of war, Gus, and all this kind of thing is beyond me. Would you kindly tell me what that was all about?”

“It was about military intelligence!” Gus was too excited to sit and paced the room as he spoke. “By revealing himself as an intimate of Schulz, he was letting us know that he has experience and training as – well, not to put it too fine – as a spy. He also believes that Britain and America may go to war again and has offered us assistance in preparing for that eventuality.”

“So that’s what all that strange talk was about. He wants you to join him in snooping around the British Isles?”

“Not me alone. Remember – it was you he contacted. He wants to give you an opportunity to see for yourself what the British defenses are like. If another war is forced upon us, we must be prepared for anything. An intimate knowledge of the coast defenses and major waterways of that country would be of incalculable aid in planning a campaign.”

“I begin to see what you mean. But it sounds pretty desperate. I don’t think that I would relish going to sea in the Count’s ship. We would have to hide belowdecks during the daylight hours and emerge like owls after dark.”

“That we will not! If we go, why, we are going to be Russian officers. Swilling champagne on deck and saying ‘Da! Da!’ Of course, you will have to dye your beard black. The Count was very firm about that. Do you think you can manage that – gospodin?”

Sherman rubbed his jaw in thought.

“So that’s what the bit concerning red hair was about.” He smiled. “Da,” he said. “I think I can manage almost anything, if it means that I can take a look at the British defenses and wartime preparation.”

With sudden enthusiasm Sherman jumped to his feet and slammed his fist down so hard on the table that the plates and saucers bounced.

“Let’s do it!”